


i gone and did it (i struck a match and lit it)

by RUHX



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M, Pining Tom Blake, Pre-Canon, soft William Schofield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26756713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUHX/pseuds/RUHX
Summary: Blakefield Kisstober 2020: Day 1, First KissesMany thanks toAlexfor the beta!Can't believe I've shipped Blakefield since leaving the cinema but this is the first fic I've written for them.
Relationships: Blakefield - Relationship, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33
Collections: Blakefield Kisstober 2020





	i gone and did it (i struck a match and lit it)

Will rarely expresses displeasure at minor inconveniences, usually simply sighs and carries on—sometimes with gritted teeth. It’s unusual for him to get this angry but every so often, the frustrations breach the levees and Will lets go, finally expelling everything that’s bothering him. Will is ranting away in their canvas bell tent as the promised inclement weather arrives—it rains and blows a gale, wind slapping the canvas and rain beating a steady rhythm in time with the gusts, the branches swaying to the wind adding to the symphony that seems to have Will tense and on edge. It’s loud enough to drown out the distant thudding of artillery and Tom takes that as a small boon.

The rant had diverged down so many different weaving paths that have all built up, the threads of frustrations interwoven until it became too heavy to bear and he finally snaps. All the stresses of the past week—past year since being drafted and thrown out into the muddy often waterlogged ditches they called trenches in Flanders came spilling out, seeking their freedom, not caring for who was listening. Any willing ear would do.

Some threads included the useless second lieutenant who’d come in with the most recent wave of reinforcements sent to bolster their numbers but had no idea what he was doing, showing dangerous incompetence and inability to listen. _Don’t go reaching out for any tins in no man’s land however tempting it is, you just make yourself an easy target for the Bosch,_ the captain inducting him had said. Not even half an hour later the lieutenant, apparently fresh faced from Sandhurst was doing just that, reaching out for a tobacco tin close to the parapet to use as a trading chip. How he’d even managed to get past phase one none of them are really sure. They all roll their eyes when they think he’s not looking, some more ballsy soldiers muttering out sarcastic impersonations.

The arrogant general who’s sour temperament and tendency to treat the men under him like expendable dirt had crawled under Will’s skin and stayed there. Whilst they hardly had to deal with him, the general housed in headquarters well away from the shooting gallery, Will could still rant about the man for hours. Most of the battalion could.

The weather had added to their troubles—it had snowed, lifting spirits in that odd charm winter weather had at first, even if it was bitterly cold and difficult to warm up at times, but that spell broke when that snow turned into rain that made the mud more thick and treacherous, churning up the ground as boots and vehicles trudged over it. It also made finding a dry spot to keep their kit in the tents they were currently using as a shelter a challenge. Both Tom and Will had folded, recognizing the losing battle.

The shelling, an almost constant and steady companion. In the trenches or behind the lines, it didn't matter where you were, you could often hear faint sounds of distant artillery _somewhere_. Tom still finds himself flinching when shells get too close for comfort but when it’s distant, it’s easier to switch off to and tune out. The shells tend to come in salvos of eight seventy-seven millimeter or whatever size shells landing near to their subsection. Morning, noon, and night. Tom hated the rude wake-up call of a shell’s thudding explosion resonating deep in his chest and throwing him out of the first chance to snatch a full night’s sleep in weeks. 

There were so many interwoven threads that the rant meandered down that Tom had long since lost track. The rant’s nothing new, Tom’s heard most of the complaints before and made half of them himself at various intervals during their stints in the lines. Tom with teary eyes, fists trembling, and blunt nails curled into his palms as he tries to contain his anger, tries and fails to keep his voice even but instead it betrays him, wobbling into hysteria as a sob breaks around his words, the sort of sob that makes his frame shake with it.

Tom looks at Will’s lips. He stopped listening to the ranting a while ago and Will hasn’t noticed Tom’s stopped nodding, making noncommittal noises showing he’s engaged, and interjecting with his own snarky comments. Will’s deviated down a few more windy paths since, but Tom only sees Will’s lips moving. Instead, he’s pulled in by the beauty of Will’s sculptured face in the half light of the evening slowly creeping in, and that longing is back in full force. Considering Tom knows how Will’s feeling right now—having experienced it often enough when he gets overwhelmed when the mail’s too slow, meaning he receives no word from his family at home or from his brother in the Second Devons for months on end, Tom thinks he should feel guilty for being more interested in his friend’s lips. 

How they shape the bitter words he forces out of his mouth and snap over the consonants, stressing specific words to emphasize his annoyance with the situation. Tom wants to lean in and taste so bad, see if Will’s lips would feel plush against his own. He’s so entranced in that line of thought that Will could be cursing Tom and his family and he wouldn’t have been aware. 

He snaps himself out of it with some difficulty, feeling guilty and face heating when Will cocks his head, finally noticing that Tom’s interests lie elsewhere. Tom’s breath catches and he waits for a reaction that never comes. Will still looks annoyed, upper lip trembling on each measured inhale and exhale very slightly as he holds eye contact, but his face softens. Still, Tom can’t help but feel caught out and wilts under Will’s steady, fiery gaze. He shrinks down into the bedding and finds something interesting in the ground to gaze at. 

“M’sorry Scho,” Tom mumbles fast, words rapidly strung together so that his tongue stumbles over them—it sounds insincere to his own ear, but he means it. Truly. He hopes Will can see that. 

“It’s been a long and miserable day,” Will says with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before collecting himself. 

Tom nods and exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Tom,” Will says, the sudden shift in tone a jarring counterpoint to the earlier anger. The way Tom’s name is shaped around his lips is softer, more questioning and not the harsh snap of words Tom was expecting. He can’t draw his eyes up from that one spot on the floor. 

So Will has a solution to that. He lifts Tom’s head up gently so their gazes are level, but Tom still tries to resist eye contact until he has to look at Will. There’s a different kind of fire in those sharp blue eyes now, Will’s tongue darting over those lips Tom had been gazing at as he looks down to consider his next move. Realizing how close they are, how they’ve both leant into each other as if drawn by some invisible force, Tom’s breath catches. A tiny, almost inaudible noise in the back of his throat.

They’ve had something unofficial and unspoken spark between them. Some nights Will would comfort Tom and curl in behind him, muttering soothing words that’d lull Tom into sleep and sometimes it was the other way around, with Tom soothing Will from warped nightmares from the Somme. The mutual comfort eventually became casual affection that was shared between them in quiet moments such as these.

Will’s eyes flick back to Tom’s and he leans in closer, a steely determination settling in as he commits to the idea he’s formulating, leaning in a little closer, intention very clear. Tom’s heart picks up, suddenly working double time as he realizes he can feel the heat radiating off from Will’s body, Will’s hair tickling against his forehead. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, keeping them knotted together in his lap for now.

“Is this okay?” Will says, oh so softly, and Tom feels Will’s breath as he speaks. Tom can’t make words form, his mouth working uselessly around them. He nods, hoping that’s consent enough.

And it is. Will leans in, lets their lips brush together. Tom’s brain stops functioning completely, melting right out of his ears. Will’s lips are chapped and dry but even after that all too brief press, Tom finds himself wanting more. They break away fast and too soon, tip-toeing around one another, still not sure the right move was made. After a beat, the corners of Will’s mouth are beginning to lift up in a fond smile.

“Was that your first kiss?” Will asks. It’s not unkind, it’s the same sweet tone he uses to calm Tom when he’s overwhelmed. But because Will asked, even with no malice or ill will behind his softly spoken words, Tom can’t help but wonder if he really noticed that he’d never kissed before.

“Yes,” Tom’s voice is small but still sounds loud to his own ears, all too aware of the relative quiet choking the camp, amplifying even the quietest of noises. The rain storm still beats down around them but Tom feels like he could be heard three tents over, clear as a sniper’s gunshot echoing through no man’s land.

“Then I am glad it was me you shared that with,” Will says. 

Tom nearly sobs, so overwhelmed that the feelings he’s been harboring the past few months were mutual. Tears threaten to spill over Tom’s eyes and he wants to scold himself for being so ridiculous and love sick. Will notices and cups a hand against Tom’s cheek, wiping away the few stray tears that fall without permission with his thumb. 

Tom leans into Will’s touch, wanting to take any and all attention Will is willing to give. In doing so, Tom notices the little flecks of dirt embedded in Will’s skin. Dirt that no matter how many times Will tries to wash off still lingers. Tom finally gets an idea for what to do with his hands. He trails the fingertips of one hand over the knuckles of Will’s spare hand and Will turns his palm up, allowing their fingers to lace together, giving a little reassuring squeeze.

Tom’s brain stops working. Melts right out of his ears as the weight of what Will said and his gestures sinks in. A tiny unbidden sob nearly escapes his throat as his emotions well up as he’s reminded he doesn’t need to hide who he is with Will. Not any more. They both have this secret part of themselves to share now, to keep safe and locked away from prying eyes. Tom regains his ability to think and moves forward for more, their mouths connecting with a clack of teeth. Tom breaks away fast, realizing he’d messed it up.

“Don’t go so fast, it’s not a race,” Will says.

He feels his cheeks heat with embarrassment as he’s called out, but he tries again. The kiss is awkward, he doesn’t find the right angle right off the bat as they deepen the kiss but they get there eventually, Will guiding Tom into the right position that allows them to find a rhythm that’s a soft give and take. Will guides Tom through the kiss for a bit, then they stop to breathe, foreheads pressed together. When they reconnect, Will steps aside to let Tom lead the way. Tom’s confidence grows as he relaxes into the moment, Will relaxing with him, and that line of tension Will carried eases out of his shoulders.

Tom doesn’t want the moment to end but it has to eventually, they both need to rest. Unless the Hun springs a surprise attack on them, they have another drab day of rain interrupting scheduled training, boring lectures Tom doesn’t understand the relevance of, and PT. Endless PT that waits for them behind the lines. 

They break away and begin to settle in for the night in their respective makeshift beds, both slightly breathless, eyes alive with what had transpired. By now it’s dark outside, wind and rain picking up, slapping harder against the canvas of the tent as if reminding them it’s still present and demanding to be heard.

Tom tosses and turns as he settles, unable to get comfortable and needing to move when he starts to finally drift off. Will falls asleep fast, he always seems to and if Tom’s being honest he’s jealous of that. Tom can’t sleep without his brain rehashing scenarios from three days ago, analyzing trivial details and wondering how he could have done things differently if he’d planned his moves out a little better. It often goes on like this for a few hours at a time before he’s startled awake by imagined noises. 

Tonight, Tom listens to the rain beat against the tent’s canvas and keeps thinking about what it had felt like to have Will kiss back, how Will had looked as he’d leant forward, how Will had initiated the whole thing that’d somehow stemmed from an angry rant. But a bitter part of him second-guessed the events of this evening, wondering if it was a daydream or if it really did happen.

Then it occurs to him, that was his first kiss, _their_ first kiss, Tom corrects himself. And he got to share that moment with Will, the man who’d been so kind to him even when hardened from the Somme, the man who’d been keeping everyone else at arm’s length but, for some reason that escapes both of them, had allowed Tom to fall into his orbit. Tom drifts on that thought, falling into a dreamless sleep with his fingertips pressed against his lips.

For the first time since arriving in France, Tom is happy, genuinely happy. Who would have thought that in this rotten hellhole you could find something as pure as love? He’d never entertained the possibility, but it’d snuck up on both him and Will, pulling them close to each other until they finally collided and made peace with it.


End file.
